


Freedom, Flowers, Books, and the Moon

by wastelandlouis



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst lots and lots of angst, Artist Louis Tomlinson, Break Up, Endgame Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Flashbacks, Fluff, Gay, Gay Harry Styles, Gay Louis Tomlinson, Louis Tomlinson Loves Harry Styles, Louis Tomlinson Misses Harry Styles, M/M, Niall Horan & Harry Styles Friendship, No Smut, Paris (City), Past Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Post-Break Up, Romance, Sad Louis Tomlinson, Strangers to Lovers, Writer Harry Styles, Zayn Malik & Louis Tomlinson Friendship, crybaby louis and mom friend zayn, larry - Freeform, louis whining the whole time, lovers to strangers, ziam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:01:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26708659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wastelandlouis/pseuds/wastelandlouis
Summary: where louis is an artist, but he finds himself recreating the face of an old lover over and over in all of his works
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Zayn Malik/Liam Payne
Comments: 3
Kudos: 26





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer:
> 
> i am not a professional artist, nor do i know how selling art and commission in an art gallery works. the information i have is from google and it may not be entirely accurate to what happens in the real world, but i am going to try my best.
> 
> this theme is solely for entertainment purposes, and there may be a few things that don't make sense when louis sells his art (once again i'm not entirely sure how it works). everything in my fic is made up save for some locations and names of the characters, any similaritiesto real life or fiction is purely coincidental.
> 
> this is a larry fic, but i do not write mlm smut.
> 
> thank you and i hope you enjoy!
> 
> xx ray
> 
> ps: if you would like to repost my story with translations in another language all i ask is that you message me and get my consent first.

**_"With freedom, flowers, books, and the moon, who could not be perfectly happy?"_ **

**_\- Oscar Wilde // De Profundis_ **

A light breeze sneaks through the crack of an open set of french doors, whisking up the corners of the sheets of the man who lays there. The crisp morning air teases his skin, begging him to wake up, wrapping itself around his leg and pulling him from the confines of his cozy bed. The sheets and duvet lay haphazardly around his body, not completely covering his frame, and the multitude of pillows he uses to mimic the feeling of not sleeping alone, are half on the floor of his flat while the others remain scattered across his bed, none actually being used to rest his tired head upon, save for one. He lays on his stomach, one of his scruff dusted cheeks pressing further into the pillow as if to prevent the tiredness from escaping. His arms wrap around the pillow and pull it closer to his face trying to force himself back into his dreams. Another breeze swings in, tickling his shirtless back and pushing his hair into his face and he takes it as the final sign to just get up out of bed. He lets out a tired sigh and blinks his bleary eyes open, once, twice, three times before they squint to adjust to the early morning sun.

The world is beginning to wake up around him when the earliest hint of light reaches through the glass of his double balcony doors in his studio flat. From the view, the sky is shifting from black to blue, while sherbet colors dance arbitrarily and paint among the flurry of vagrant clouds. Louis rolls over onto his back and stares at his unpretentious eggshell ceiling in an effort to collect his disjointed thoughts, while a yawn slips past his lips. He shakes his head in an attempt to wake himself as if he could physically expel the exhaustion from his body, and forces himself up onto his elbows to start his day. He releases one more sigh and pushes what remained of the sheets off of his short-clad body and sits on the edge of his bed, looking out past his balcony doors to admire the muddled yet harmonious burst of color that exploded across the sky. Louis smiles to himself at the simplicity of the sunrise, reminding him that each day may be different, and sometimes not in a positive manner, but the eruption of color will always retain the same enchantment.

He finally stands and stretches his stiff tattooed arms over his head, groaning lowly as he feels his spine crack and he shakes his arms out as he brings them back down. Rubbing his hand slowly over his face while wiping the sleep from his eyes, he walks across his flat to his kitchen space. He yawns once more while his blunt fingernails scratch at his exposed tummy, messing with the light dusting of hair that disappears underneath the band of his shorts. He grabs the kettle from his stove and flicks the burner on, filling it with water for his morning tea. As the kettle begins to heat up, he pulls out one of his iconic Yorkshire tea bags and a mug with the Eiffel tower on it that his best friend, Zayn, had given him when he initially moved to this flat. It's a house warming gift, he had joked. Louis laughs to himself at the memory and sets his mug on the counter reaching for his fridge to take out some milk. A cuppa without sugar was the only way to have tea, and no, Louis was not taking criticism.

The kettle begins to screech as his water finally comes to a boil and Louis pours it over his tea bag, allowing it to steep for a few minutes. While he waits for his tea he tosses two slices of bread into his toaster and grabs butter to smear across it. Once his toast is finished he removes his tea bag and tosses it into the bin and adds a splash of milk to his mug. He carries his plate of toast and his cuppa over towards his work station, placing both items onto the small side table next to his easel. Louis plants himself onto his stool and takes a long sip from his mug and bites down hungrily on his simple breakfast.

Louis begins to assemble his paints on a round pane of glass, picking out a few of his favorite brushes, and stares back at the canvas he sketched out the night before, that was in the vague shape of a man resting his head on the trunk of a tree and looking off into the distance. He had been struggling for inspiration lately and every so often he would end up recreating the same face in his works subconsciously, which irritated him, considering this was his job and he wouldn't get much further if every piece of his looked the same. Louis glances out his windows to the sunrise which was nearing its peak and draws his encouragement from it, focusing on the tantalizing red that streaked across the sky that morning.

The blue-eyed man with his messy bed head of a fringe sits upon his stool, shades of black, green, and red smudged along the sleeves of his "work" shirt (which is just the shirt with the most paint stains that he didn't care about). He holds a paintbrush between his long fingers, the handle of it unrecognizable from the layers of oil paints dried in the soft crevices of the wood. His tiny pink tongue pokes out from between his dry and cracked lips in concentration while his curved brows crease as he stares at the canvas before him. He swipes another streak of light brown down the curls of the man he was painting, ever so carefully blending it to create a highlight.

Oil paintings were Louis' specialty, something he had been passionate about as long as he could remember. When he was a pre-teen his mother bought him his first easel and a set of brushes and paints for his birthday and Louis had been painting ever since. He hides his emotions in his work, expressing himself on paper the way he used to in person, but his light had long since burnt out, and he resorted to forcing his feelings onto a canvas rather than project them into the real world. He wasn't always so closed off, but things change, feelings change, and Louis changed. Never in a million years would he have believed that his love for painting would become his full time job, not after everyone in his life had told him he wouldn't make it as an artist. He would fantasize about all of the greats, Van Gogh, Monet, Botticelli, et cetera, but he never imagined that he would one day be like them. By no means was Louis considered a famous artist of his time, but his work was sought after and bought for prices he couldn't fathom being reasonable.

When he graduated high school he went to university for an art degree, but he never expected to get as far as he has. He always pictured himself as those tragically struggling artists, begging for someone to notice him, notice his work, but a few years ago he got his wish when he packed his things and moved to Paris for a fresh start. A representative from a prestigious gallery saw his work and made Louis' dream become a reality. Ever since then, he was offered to create at least one work a month for them to auction off, as long as they kept 30% of the profits. It was a no-brainer for Louis, since he was told his entire life that he would never get anywhere as an artist and that he didn't have the talent to pull it of as a professional. But art is always about perspective and if someone really feels something, anything, when they see your work, that's all that really matters and that's what makes it all worth it.

At first Louis' art would sell for a couple thousand euros, and he would walk away with just enough to pay his rent and keep him fed until he sold his next piece, but as his confidence grew and his name spread across Europe, more and more art connoisseurs and buyers were in the pursuit of the semi-famous Louis Tomlinson. He went from selling paintings for low four figures to nearly six figures. He started his journey living with flatmates in spaces that were nearly half of what he encompassed now, from apps that specialized in randomized pairings of others who couldn't meet the expenses of being on their own. If he sold one painting today, it would be enough to keep him afloat for months without struggling to pay his bills, and it was euphoric; he felt like he had finally made it. Louis didn't care about the money though, yes, it was nice to not have to worry about how he was going to afford his next meal, but he loves creating and he does it out of love, not greed.

"Fuck," he mutters under his breath, narrow eyes scanning his work with distaste. He takes his round brush dips it into a mug of solvent before vigorously mixing it around to coat the soft sable hair, and pulls it out to wipe it with a multicolor-stained paper towel.

"Every goddamn time," Louis sighs and stands from his stool, displeased with the painting he had been working on all morning. He awoke when the sun did, and used the sunrise as his muse, but instead his subconscious took control once more and recreated the face of someone he wished to forget.

Louis hadn't even realized until it was nearly finished and he glances into those painted virescent eyes that never fail to weaken his knees and force his heart to run a marathon. He stares longingly at the canvas, his eyes tracing the curves of his soft umber curls and down to the tattoo on one of his dainty collar bones, wishing in this moment that Louis wasn't looking at just a canvas of this boy - his boy, well not his anymore, but once upon a time, when Louis wasn't afraid to love and Harry wasn't afraid of love.

A knock at his door pulls Louis from his thoughts and he shakes his head free from Harry, for now. He calls out to whomever is waiting for him and he hears the door open, but he doesn't move from his stance, his eyes still focused on his painting. The face of the boy who taught him how to love and yet simultaneously how to never love again staring back at him, haunting his mind even after years of being apart.

"You good?" his friend asks which finally snaps Louis from his trance. He glances over his shoulder to see Zayn with a tray of coffee in one hand and a bag of, what he hopes is, pain au chocolat.

"M'good," he mutters, turning to face his best friend. "Those for me?" he asks and motions his chin up at the treats in Zayn's hands. Zayn nods in response and sets them down wherever he can find space on Louis' cluttered dining table. Forgotten half-sketches, miscellaneous brushes and pencils, and numerous blank canvas sheets scattered across his dining table, not that he ate much there anyways. Louis resides in a spacious studio in the heart of Paris, with a to-die-for view of the Eiffel tower, and yet with all the space he still lives in clutter, but as Louis would say: it's organized clutter. It may be messy to the untrained eye, but he knows where everything is, because everything somehow has a place, including that one smock Louis prefers to use that he left in-between his much-too-full bookshelf and his overflowing laundry basket.

Louis greedily opens up the paper pastry bag to find exactly what he had hoped was in there, pulling the croissant from it he takes a large bite, moaning lowly as the chocolate reached his tongue. "What did I do in my life to have a mate like you?" He asks rhetorically with a mouthful, crumbs falling from his lips while Zayn shakes his head with a soft smile resting on his lips.

"You're disgusting," He laughs and takes his coffee from the tray, holding the warm cup between his cold hands, pulling it close to his chest to savor the warmth. "Fall is here," he announces, pulling out a chair while dramatically shivering as if to further prove his point.

"Oh come on Z. It's not that cold yet," Louis teases him and shoves more of his second breakfast into his hungry mouth. Zayn's amber eyes twinkle with amusement at his best friend, a small smile quirking the corner of his blushing lips.

"Whatcha working on today Lou?" Zayn asks his curious eyes searching around him to his nearly finished canvas. Louis shifts uncomfortably, his eyes looking back and forth between Zayn and his painting.

He clears his throat and forces Zayn's attention back to him, not willing to open the door to that conversation, one they've had one too many times for it to be normal. He met Zayn post Harry, so Zayn was there to witness all of Louis' aftermath. When they met Louis was nothing more than the remnants of a broken vase. Harry had emptied his flowers and his soil and then carelessly tossed Louis to the floor, watching as the ceramic shattered across the floor. Zayn tried, he really did, to fit his pieces back together, but once something breaks it never truly gets fixed. Louis' shards were jagged and infinitesimal pieces of him were missing from the break, he wasn't the man he was before Harry, and he probably never would be. He was being held together by super glue and false hope, clinging on tightly while waiting for even one chip to shift out of place, and then he would come crashing down again, only for Zayn to help put him back together. "Nothing, just I- it's a mess honestly. Might have to scrap it and start something new for the gallery."

"Wait a second," Zayn interjects with his eyebrows furrowing as he gets a better look at it. "Is that..? Oh God, it is isn't it?" He asks without really asking, but Louis knows that he means. He had told Zayn the story, and shown him the pictures he still has yet to delete from his phone, so Zayn knew exactly who was staring back at him from the canvas.

He fiddles with a loose thread at the hem of his jumper and sighs. "I don't wanna talk about it," he admits and Zayn looks back up to him biting his lip to prevent himself from saying something to piss Louis off. He was good at reading people, one of his many talents, and Louis was easy to read. He may hide behind his false smiles and impressively witty intellect, but Zayn could always discern when the other shoe was about to drop, and he had sensed the moments leading up to this for weeks now. Every so often, Louis breaks again, his super glue unsticking and he comes crashing down. Something, anything, triggers a memory of Harry and the life they had together, and it truly and utterly devastates him all over again, but Zayn is always waiting, paired with a broom to sweep him back up, and more glue to hold him together for the time being. Before they broke up, Louis felt like the sun, always shining, always happy, but when Harry left he stole Louis' light and has yet to return it to him. Louis has spent the last four years without him, shuddering in the chilling darkness of a never-ending eclipse, patiently waiting for his sunlight to return to him.

He holds in hands up in mock surrender, "Alright, alright. We don't have to talk about why you keep painting he who shall not be named." Louis rolls his eyes and lets out a small laugh, happy that Zayn is as understanding as he is. "So what do you think you're gonna paint for the gallery then, since that one over there is being trashed?" He asks shifting the focus of the conversation to something a little bit lighter, and to a subject Louis may actually want to talk about.

"I'm honestly not sure," He confesses, pulling out the seat across from Zayn at the dining table and resting his elbows on top of it. He drops his face into his hands and blows out a breath before looking back up to Zayn, his calloused hands still holding his cheeks. "I've just got no inspiration lately. Everything is just so... so blah."

"Blah, huh?" he teases earning an eye roll from across the table. "Such a way with words. You should've been a writer instead."

"Oh, piss off," Louis laughs and picks up a pencil that was laying around tossing it at Zayn's chest. "M'serious. I dunno what to do. I mean they're relying on me to have a piece for them in two weeks and I've got fuck all done."

"I think you need a break," Zayn suggests with a wiggle of his brows.

"Let's go out," he says at the same time Louis says "I'm not going out tonight."

Zayn whines dramatically and throws his head back for added effect. "Come on Louis," he begs, "All you ever do is sit cooped up in this flat, re-reading boring ass books from the fucking 1800's, painting like you're Van Gogh reincarnated or something, and staring at the moon like some kind of sap. Let's do something," he emphasizes and Louis shakes his head.

"I can't Zayn. I'm busy. I have deadlines, and I can't exactly get my work done if I'm out piss drunk and fucking strangers in a dark corner of a pub," Louis argues back, but the idea of getting out of his all-too-familiar flat tempting him.

"Hey, no one said you have to fuck them in the corner, maybe just a dark alley, but it's nice to let loose every once in a while. I mean you said you need inspiration so maybe if we go out you'll find some." He winks at Louis suggestively and Louis laughs again.

Louis takes his offer into consideration and realizes that Zayn might be right this time, just this one time though. Louis is an adult with responsibilities now, not just a uni kid who can ditch his school work for a night out and still be alright the next week. But on the other hand, it didn't hurt to just forget about deadlines now and again. He wasn't always this serious, but he finally had the career of a lifetime, and those opportunities come sparingly and he couldn't afford to waste it now, not when he had waited his whole life for his big break. A few years ago Louis would be the type of person to beg Zayn to go out and get plastered at a random pub, but ever since Harry, Louis had lost that piece of himself, and Zayn was determined to find him.

"Stop thinking too much, just say yes. Your pretty little head isn't meant for thinking, just admiring from afar," Zayn rags on him and Louis sighs, for what seems like the hundredth time today, and makes up his mind.

"Okay, okay, fine," he agrees and Zayn cheers, throwing his fists triumphantly in the air.

"Sound like a plan," Zayn smiles and gets up from his seat. "Okay. So, I'll swing by around 8 and we can head out for a drink or two, or three." Zayn grabs his coffee cup and practically skips towards the door, fulfilling his task of getting Louis to leave his flat.

"That's it? A pastry and some corruption and then you leave?" Louis calls out and Zayn turns back around with a smile still etched on his face.

"Yes, sir. I've been plotting to get you to leave this flat for days now, and if I leave now you can't change your mind," he reveals while turning the doorknob. "Plus, Liam is waiting for me to grab lunch. Bye Louis, see you at 8," he says with a wink and shuts the door behind him as Louis sits at his table dumbfounded.

"That conniving fucker," he mutters under his breath and pushes himself up from his seat.

Louis takes his time getting up from the table, not in a rush for anything. He still had close to seven hours before Zayn would be back to drag him from his place. He decides to clean up his art station for the day, not seeing the point in finishing his painting. He collects his used brushes slowly as if molasses was running through his veins, and dips them each, one by one, into a mug of paint solvent to pull the oil paints from it. After he wipes them clean with a paper towel, he mixes them in another mug that was filled with safflower oil to keep his bristles soft and hold the shape of the brush and then wipes them clean once again. He organizes his multitude of brushes into an arrangement of different cups, each cup dedicated to a certain shaped brush. His art materials seemed to be the only things Louis cared about keeping clean in his otherwise disorganized flat.

Once he finished putting away his brushes and his paints Louis glanced quickly over his mess on the dining table and had a quick thought of cleaning it before deciding: fuck that, and trudging to his bathroom. He turns the water on high, testing the temperature of it with his palm, and pulling his paint-stained jumper over his head and tossing it onto the pile of dirty clothes he stuffs behind his door. He'll wash his laundry eventually, he thinks. Louis discards the rest of his clothes and steps into his hot shower, steam pouring into the bathroom diaphanously. He rolls his head back allowing the water to soak his hair, closing his eyes to relish in the warmth that fills his body. Louis used showers as a form of therapy almost, when he was stressed or melancholy he would stand under water hot enough to be comparable to hellfire, as if it could physically cleanse his hyperactive head. Louis lathers his hands with shampoo and scrubs his worries from his hair washing them down the drain, reminding himself to just let go for one night. If not for himself then for Zayn, who deserved a best friend that wasn't always a miserable twat.

Louis finishes his therapy session for today and steps out to wrap a cream fluffy towel around his waist. He picks his phone up from the bathroom counter and checks the time seeing 5:29 PM across his screen. He still had plenty of time before Zayn and Liam came to whisk him away, but Louis was just going to get ready now. It had been so long since Louis had gone out and properly gotten trashed with his mates, and he was honestly a little bit excited to feel normal again. Like Zayn had said: all Louis does is re-read old ass books and paint. It was nice to switch things up and push his responsibilities out of his head for once, although he was struggling because he had no idea what to wear.

He exists his bathroom with steam billowing out from behind him, following his steps as he walks to his iron clothing rack and dresser. He hums to himself as he pulls open the drawer full of trousers and jeans he hardly wears anymore. His fingers sift through his options settling for a plain black pair of skinny jeans with a large rip across one of the knees that he got during a skateboarding incident a few years back. Louis shrugs to himself, deeming it appropriate and shuts the drawer with his foot while tossing his jeans onto his still unmade bed. He grabs a pair of boxers and slides them up his legs, taking his towel off and running it over his head to partially dry his dripping hair. He hangs the towel onto the end of his clothing rack and begins pushing his hangers around to find the right shirt to wear. Selecting a plain grey t-shirt and a black adidas zip-up he figures it will be good enough.

With just his jeans on, Louis walks over to his balcony doors and steps onto it admiring his view of the city. When he first arrived in Paris he was struggling in a cramped three bedroom flat with Zayn, who was only a stranger then, and another random who they got paired with, just to afford the ridiculously overpriced space. That flat was where he met his best friend, where he got his first taste of Paris, and where he decided he never wanted to be anywhere else. He escaped London with a ratty old suitcase and a dream, finding himself in the city of hopeless romantics, who just happened to appreciate his art. When his name started growing and his work started selling, Louis packed up his tiny corner of his shared flat and found a place for himself, something he had never had before, and he was eternally grateful.

In London, Louis was a fresh-faced, wide-eyed, uni graduate with an art degree, the world in the palm of his hand, but no money to his name. After he graduated he was working odd jobs here and there just to afford his rent in his shared two bedroom flat with an old friend. It was never enough for him, always struggling to sell a piece, and never having much else to show other than a flimsy piece of paper from his uni that stated he was alright enough to graduate. But as he looks out into the city, bare tattoo covered arms resting on his railing, he realizes it was all worth it. All of the budgeting, sleepless nights, and stretching his paychecks by the pence, hell, even the heartbreak that pushed him to flee, it was all worth it for him to make it here. A light gust of wind swings by him, pushing his damp hair up into the air and he smiles.

Louis putts around for a few more hours before Zayn comes knocking at his door, his strong cologne forcing its way into Louis' nose as he engulfs him in a hug. "You ready?" He asks and Louis nods, seeing Liam standing in the doorway with a smile on his face. Liam and Zayn had been seeing each other for the better part of two years now, and Liam had become a second best friend to him since arriving here.

Zayn swings an arm around Louis' shoulders and pulls him out of his flat with Liam closing the door behind the three of them. Zayn grips one of Liam's hands in his free hand with the other arm still stuck atop Louis' shoulders. The three of them walk in unison down the lively streets of Paris, its inhabitants awoken by the promise of the weekend. Zayn leads the trio to the most popular bar in Louis' neighborhood and surprisingly they find an empty high-top table, which is a rare occurrence here.

"Okay Lou, what are you drinking tonight?" Zayn asks before looking to Louis' face. "Never mind, I'll just grab you a pint," he says before walking up to the bar to order drinks for everyone.

Zayn returns to them a few minutes later and the night truly begins.

Louis honestly lost count of how many pints he had swallowed, his tummy bloated from the drink, and his mind buzzing in a way it hasn't in months. About an hour into it, Liam and Zayn were all over one another, Louis' presence not swaying them from sucking face and whispering God-knows-what and Louis didn't want to know what, into each other's ears. He watches as Zayn stares at Liam with adoration as if Liam shit out diamonds and every word he spoke was laced with gold. It made him queasy, because that was the way he looked at Harry.

Harry. Fuck. Could he just have a few hours where he didn't think about him? Was that too much to ask? Just a few hours without the thought of his soft curls and his doll eyes, time spent away from dreaming about his canyons for dimples that appeared whenever Louis told him a corny joke, jokes that weren't even that funny, but Harry used to think anything Louis said was hilarious.

Jealousy sparks in Louis eyes as he looks at the couple across from him, so in love that it's sickeningly sweet and you could get cavities from them. He pushes himself up and out of his chair mumbling an "Excuse me," not that they noticed him anyway, and waltzes up to the bar. The bartender cocks her head to him and he orders two shots of whatever was strongest just to push the rancor and the longing from his head. She hands Louis two shot glasses of clear liquor and he hands her a few bills too many, knocking the shots back as quickly as she placed them down. He smiles drunkenly at her and thanks her before stumbling a bit back to his table, where Zayn and Liam seemed to actually be having a conversation for once. It's not as if Louis was angry with them for being together, he was just bitter and lonely, and sometimes it felt like they were rubbing salt into a wound that never seem to heal, even after four years.

Zayn perks his head back up when Louis sits, feeling drunk and embarrassed for basically dry humping his boyfriend in front of his best friend, when this night was supposed to be about helping Louis let loose. Liam smiles at Louis sheepishly, a blush creeping up his tanned neck and spreading onto his cheeks.

"How you feeling, Lou?" Zayn slurs, his words jumbled as they tangle with the alcohol on his tongue.

"Feeling pretty well pissed," Louis shrugs, his eyelids feeling heavy from the alcohol in his system. "But good, really good." He smiles at the warm feeling inside of his chest, clinging onto it as proof that Louis can still feel.

"You look properly pissed, mate," Liam drunkenly giggles, his cherry lips bruised from how much face sucking he had undergone in the last few hours.

"And you two look drunk in love," Louis fires back with a smile. "Get a room next time." The three of them all laugh, Zayn dramatically throwing his head back and Liam burying his face in his hands.

"No need to be jealous, Lou, you could join us if you really wanted," Zayn suggests with a wink and Louis' jaw drops at the obscenity.

"I couldn't do that to you Zaynie. Liam over here would forget all about you once he got a taste of me in the sack." Zayn rolls his eyes and Liam blushes.

"Yeah you're probably right," Zayn says with hooded eyes biting back a smile. "But maybe we can find you someone else to bury your dick in for the night."

Louis cocks his head contemplating the idea, and takes a quick glance around the bar. It had been a long while since Louis had gotten laid, too long for him to want to admit. He spent most of his days moping around, and hardly gave a second thought to dating. There were a few flings here and there, but he always found himself comparing their touch to his. Was it even healthy for him to still be hung up on him? The world may never know, but Louis was leaning towards no, probably not. That chapter of his life had long since ended, and he was struggling to turn the next page.

"If you spot a fit man, by all means let me know. M'having a little trouble seeing straight right now." Louis admits and Zayn immediately begins to scan the crowd, taking his place as Louis' wing man. As he glances around the packed pub, his eyes settle on a man sitting at the bar, his eyes trained on Louis. Zayn smirks to himself and nudges Liam who looks up and notices the same thing.

While Louis is preoccupied trying to unlock his phone (even though is currently upside down in his hands) Liam waves the man over. His eyes widen and he points to himself, making sure they were actually referring to him and Zayn nods his head enthusiastically. He stands up from the bar and stalks over, his strides large and confident, while his eyes carry uncertainty.

"Lou," Liam signals and his head hastily looks up from his phone (which he ended up turning around and unlocking) and he sees the man coming over.

He carries a single pint with both of his hands, and Louis takes the chance to give him a quick up and down. His chin length wavy hair curves at his neck and Louis follows it down his torso, clad in a simple white tee paired with ripped jeans and a pair of black vans. At first glance he looks like Louis' type, a tad bit taller with impossibly long legs, a cute smile, and shy. The man makes his way over to their table finally and Louis decides he's good enough, just for a quick fuck, at least.

"Hi, M'Louis," he hums, holding out a hand with a sloppy smile etched on his face.

The stranger takes his hand and immediately all Louis can think about is how they aren't as soft as Harry's. He pushes the thought back, trying to bring himself back into the moment. "Noel," he says simply.

Louis pulls out the seat next to him, "Sit, sit. Don't be shy," he ushers, and allows Noel to take the seat. "This is Zayn and Liam." He waves his hand around pointing at the two of them who were smiling at Noel and Louis.

"So what do you do for a living, Noel?" Liam asks, resting his chin on his hands and Zayn nudges him lightly with his elbow.

"Oh, I'm an accountant. I work in a firm and punch numbers all day. What about you lot?"

"Zayn here is about to graduate from Law school, and I'm actually a teacher. But Louis here is a wonderful painter, maybe you've seen his work at the Contemporary Art auction. He's quite good, the next Monet I'd say," Liam goes down the line, giving this Noel lad a glimpse at their lives.

"A painter, huh?" Noel muses, his focus shifting back to Louis. "Do you paint portraits, or are you more landscapes and abstract?"

"I paint whatever I find interesting, my dear boy," Louis slurs, suddenly seeing double.

"And what about me? You find me interesting enough yet?" Noel says shamelessly, and Zayn and Liam take this as their cue to leave the two of them. They look to one another and nod.

"Well, I hate to do this to you Lou, but I think Li and I are gonna call it a night," Zayn winks and the pair push themselves up from the table, not as gracefully as they would have hoped.

"Bye lads, talk to you tomorrow or something," Louis mumbles, and watches as they leave the bar, hands trailing over each other like they'll never touch again, stealing kisses in between steps.

Louis and Noel make small talk for a few minutes before Louis thinks: Fuck this. In the middle of whatever boring story Noel was telling about his life as a professional nerd, Louis speaks out, "Wanna get out of here?" And Noel doesn't hesitate to nod.

They exit the bar and as they walk down the street, scarce with other human beings, Noel pulls Louis by his shirt into an alley. He presses a messy kiss to Louis unsuspecting lips, the taste of beer on his tongue as Noel pulls him tighter to him. It takes a moment of hesitation on Louis part before he pushes the man into the chilling brick wall behind them and takes control of the encounter. As their lips slot together and their hands wander over the unexplored territory of one another, Louis finds his hands running through the soft waves of Noel's dark hair, disappointed when he realizes they aren't as bouncy as his.

Noel pulls apart for a breath of fresh air and he throws Louis a lopsided smile, eyes hooded, as heavy pants fill the space between them. "I've wanted to do that all night," Noel admits and Louis hums, pulling his face back to his just to shut him up. He wants to forget for the night, wants to lose himself completely in someone else if only for a few hours. Noel's hands travel down Louis' fit torso and trail along the band of his jeans and Louis' breath hitches in his throat. He keeps his eyes closed as Noel leaves a few kisses to his neck, sucking at the skin and pushing Louis further into his mind. He just wants to feel good for once. Noel's fingers unbutton Louis' jeans and he palms Louis over his boxers.

"Is this okay?" he whispers and Louis nods numbly, losing himself in the pleasure, something he hasn't felt in a while.

His long fingers pull at the band of his boxers and let them go, causing them to snap against Louis' skin and he hisses at the contact. When Noel sneaks his hand in and grabs him, Louis starts to feel himself losing control of his emotions and his clarity. His hands fumble and he grips onto Noel's hips, digging his blunt nails into his soft skin. Louis mutters out a few curse words at the sensation of someone else's hand jerking him for once, throwing his head back with his eyes screwed shut.

"Fuck, Harry," he lets out, the words coming out softer than a whisper. The words click in his brain and he pushes himself back, Noel staring at him with a confused look plastered on his face. 

"Who's Harry?" he asks with his eyebrows knotted together and his eyes narrow.

"Shit, I- fuck. M'sorry. I can't," Louis sputters out in disjoined sentences, pulling his fly up and backing away from Noel. "So sorry," he mutters once again before he takes off, running down the empty streets back to his flat, his mind swirling with booze and his body stumbling as he races against himself. 


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> louis is hungover. and louis remembers when he first met harry.

Louis wakes the next morning half slumped over his bed, legs hanging off of the edge with one shoe on still. After making it back to his flat in record time, especially as inebriated as he was, he threw up the entirety of the contents in his stomach, and somehow lifted himself from the bathroom floor and got half of his body into bed. He passed out as soon as his drunk head hit his mattress, not even bothering to change his vomit-littered clothes, or even rinse his rank breath out. Bright rays of sunshine blind him when he cracks his eyes open, shutting them immediately and groaning deeply into his mattress. His head pounding, his mouth obnoxiously dry, and Louis vows, in that moment, to never drink again. He lets out a pathetic cry and turns his face away from the sun, begging for his headache to disappear. He rubs his temples slowly, trying to ease the throbbing happening behind his eyes, squeezing them closed and biting his lip, trying not to whine again.

His activities from last night filter through his mind in jagged images and he groans again. _How embarrassing_. Not only did he make a fool of himself while trying to score, but he puked when he got home. Louis chastises himself and he feels regret gnaw at his stomach, and once again Louis feels sick. His jaw clenches and he flies up from his mattress, covering his mouth with his hand as he runs over to his bathroom and empties his stomach once again. He wasn’t sure if he was throwing up this time from alcohol or from guilt. Who the fuck says another man’s name while getting lucky? Louis apparently.

His hands clutch the edge of the toilet bowl as he dry heaves over it again, tears pooling in his eyes as he squeezes them shut. He slumps on top of the toilet, his limp head resting on of his arms as he thinks. Noel wasn’t a bad looking guy, and Louis was definitely willing to take him home, but of course _“Harry the cockblock”_ strut into his drunk brain like he owned it, and maybe he did. Louis gags over the bowl once more, nothing coming out, and he starts to cry. Partly from his bitch of a hangover and partially because he wants so badly to move on, but he just can’t. He wants to get out there and meet a nice guy and settle down, but all he ever thinks about is Harry. He misses him more than anything, and the part that hurts the most is that Louis knows Harry doesn’t feel the same. If he did he wouldn’t have left, he wouldn’t have broken Louis the way he did. Louis is a mess, slumping over his toilet bowl with tears and vomit staining his face. _Such a pretty picture_ , he thinks to himself, and continues to cry.

Louis thinks about moving on again and he feels his heart strings pull at the possibility. It’s not like he thinks Harry will ever come back to him, he knows he won’t, but the “what if” is always whispering in the back of Louis’s head, like a scratch he can’t itch. His body wracks with violent wails and they echo back at him from the toilet bowl and Louis thinks he truly couldn’t look more pathetic. Harry was the ultimate love of his life, the kind you only get once, and Louis can’t imagine himself loving someone else as fiercely as he loved him. No one’s touch could ever compare. No one’s smile would shine as much. No one’s eyes would make him feel like his home was wrapped up in a single person. And no one’s laugh would ever make Louis feel like he was dancing among the clouds again. He believed Harry was his soulmate, even if Louis wasn’t his. He had never met anyone who could even hold a candle to Harry, and it tore at his sanity. He knows he has to move on. He knows he can’t hold on for someone who doesn’t want him, but in a way, Louis feels like he’s betraying Harry whenever he gives someone else a chance.

“Stop fucking crying, you stupid baby,” Louis curses at himself, and holds his head up and forcefully wipes away his tears, only for more to fall in their place. He feels hollow without Harry, and he stiffens as another sob breaks through his body. There was a time when Louis would have done anything for Harry, he would’ve burned himself in order for Harry to stay warm, but in the end it was Harry who burned him. Louis had seen it coming for a little while. Harry distanced himself from him in those final weeks, but Louis refused to see it then, and he wished he had, because maybe, just maybe, things would’ve turned out differently.

Louis hears his door open and he groans again into the bowl. Fucking Zayn. Louis isn’t in the mood to deal with an addition to his pity party, and he knows Zayn is going to make him clean up and get his shit together. But all Louis wants is to lay in bed and feel sorry for himself. He hears Zayn call out for him as his shoes click on the hardwood floor, growing louder by the second as he searches for Louis. He doesn’t even bother to compose himself when Zayn appears in the doorway with wide eyes and his face contorted in worry.

“Lou, what the fuck happened to you?” he asks and Louis just lets out a harsh laugh. His hangover has made him cranky, paired with his infantile feelings for Harry that won’t go away.

“I look that bad?” he jokes and lifts his head up at Zayn. He sits cross-legged on the tile of his bathroom, vomit on his grey tee, and tears streaking his face. His elbows still rest on the edge of the seat, and he lays his cheek on one of his hands because he can’t seem to keep it up on its own. He glances down and sees his pants are still unbuttoned and his fly is only half up and he bites back a laugh, afraid of Zayn’s reaction. He probably looks feral to Zayn right now, and although he should care, he doesn’t.

Zayn kneels down to the floor, squatting next to Louis, who frankly, looks like he was run over by a bus. Half of his hair is matted to his forehead, while the rest looks like it was caught up in a tornado. His eyes are bloodshot and puffy, and he smells like a pub bathroom. Zayn’s hand reaches out and pushes back Louis’ hair that was falling into his bleary eyes, and he sighs. “Jesus, Louis.”

“Did that guy do something to you? I should’ve never left you with him, that was a mistake,” he admits and Louis tries to shake his head, moaning when his head spikes with pain. Zayn was always so protective, and of course after seeing Louis in this state, he blamed the person he left Louis with, even though the incident with Noel was only a minuscule droplet in the ocean of Louis’ sufferings.

“S’not your fault. All mine,” He mumbles and his stomach churns again. Louis turns his head back to the bowl and heaves once again, Zayn rushing over to rub a soothing hand on his back. Even after his heaving fit ends, Zayn keeps his hand on Louis’ back massaging circles into him in an attempt to help. Louis loses his composure and starts weeping once again, head hanging over the toilet, Zayn’s hand never leaving him.

“Shh, shh. Hey, Lou. What’s wrong? Please talk to me,” Zayn begs, nerves building in his stomach, not understanding why Louis looked so beat up. He pulls Louis’ lax body up and cradles him into his chest, letting him get every heart-wrenching cry out. Louis’ back lays against Zayn’s chest and Zayn has one hand wrapped around his stomach and the other one laying reassuringly on his head, occasionally brushing his hair from his face. “Alright, just get it all out,” he soothes, and Louis almost feels guilty for letting Zayn see him in this state, even though he’s seen him just as bad before. They lay there for a few minutes until Louis’ violent sobs are nothing but a sniffle here and there, and he inhales large shaky breaths to calm himself down.

“You alright now?” Zayn asks, and Louis nods weakly, forcing his eyes shut as his headache intensifies. “Okay, how about this? You take a shower and clean up while I grab you some painkillers and then we can talk about whatever is troubling you,” He suggests, and Louis nods again and lets Zayn help him up from the floor. Without hesitation, Zayn starts the shower for him and gives Louis a small smile with a quick squeeze on the shoulder, before he steps out of the bathroom, softly shutting the door behind him.

Louis takes a deep breath and strips from his vomit-coated clothes stepping into the warm shower. Immediately he feels the tension from his body dissipate, and he throws his head back, wiping away the tear stains and stomach acid that remained on his chin. He feels everything build up again and covers his mouth before a few cries escape, holding himself back before Zayn hears him again. Louis didn’t deserve him, that much was true. He had never had a friend who treated him so well, through all of his high and lows. With Zayn, Louis felt loved, and he felt like he had someone to rely on, which scared him. The last person he relied on left him, and Louis knew that if Zayn got fed up with him one day and decided his emotional baggage wasn’t worth the friendship, he would never recover. He didn’t want to feel like a burden to anyone else.

He allows the shower to cleanse his mind and he tries to force his negative thoughts out, collecting his wits and giving himself a pep talk. The warm water beats on his back and relieves the tension from his aching muscles and Louis rolls his shoulder back trying to regain movement. Once he finally rids himself from the vomit scent, he turns the shower off and steps out pulling a towel from the bathroom rack and wrapping it tightly around his waist. He swings open the door and sees Zayn cleaning up his room, pulling his duvet off of his bed and tossing it in the corner, while also picking up anything that looks like has puke on it, off of the floor.

“What are you, my mum?” Louis teases, his voice hoarse from the constant echo of sobs and puking ripping his vocal cords apart. Zayn drops whatever was in his grasp, caught red-handed. He awkwardly scratches the back of his neck and laughs nervously.

“Just helping you clean up the place. I think you missed the toilet once or twice.” He motions towards the little pile he had gathered and Louis feels his cheeks flush with embarrassment. He only remembered the initial puke when he got home, and the one from when he woke up, the rest is a blur.

“Yeah,” he says lowly, “wasn’t the best night for me. Should’ve just stuck to pints.”

“Well you know the saying: liquor before beer and all that.” Louis just nods, stepping over to his dresser and pulling out boxers and a pair of joggers. He slides the items up his legs and under the towel and runs his towel through his sopping wet hair.

“Want to grab some coffee and get some food into you?” Zayn asks and holds his hand out with two pills for his hangover and Louis grabs them, swallowing them dry. He opens his mouth to answer but his stomach calls out before he can, causing the two of them to laugh. “Well, I guess that answers my question.”

Louis shakes his head in amusement and finds a clean looking hoodie to throw on and slips it on. He glances around his messy flat and finds a pair of trainers to toss on and then gives Zayn a thumbs up. “Alright, let’s go.”

Louis and Zayn walk for about 15 minutes towards a quaint cafe- Louis complaining the entire time about how hungry he was- with a few people in the outdoor seats and some scattered inside. As they walk through the doorway, Louis trips over the step, cursing under his breath while Zayn just laughs at him.

“Oh. Ha ha very funny. The man dying from a killer hangover trips and adds to his misery,” Louis deadpans and Zayn shakes his head stifling another laugh.

They each order large cups of coffee and a few breakfast pastries, even though it was nearing lunch time, and pick a table for two outside near the door. Louis nurses his warm cup between his chilled hands, the brisk wind of the impending autumn sending a chill throughout his body, and he stares at Zayn across the table. He sits poised, not even a hint of a hangover on his features, and Louis rolls his eyes in annoyance. Zayn sees and scrunches his eyebrows at Louis sudden attitude.

“What’s your problem?” he snips, and Louis huffs.

“You’re not even hungover. You and Li drank just as much as me and yet M’the one dying over here,” he whines and now it’s Zayn’s turn to roll his eyes.

“Liam and I can just handle our booze better apparently,” Zayn teases and Louis purses his lips to suppress a snide comment, blaming his attitude on his thrumming head and groaning stomach.

He mumbles a quick, “Whatever.” and starts picking at one of his pastries. He pecks at it, his shitty mood suppressing his appetite even though he hasn’t eaten in nearly over twelve hours. He thinks back to the previous night and nausea seeps into his abdomen once again and he pushes his half-eaten plate away.

Zayn watches curiously and clears his throat. “So,” he muses, trying to get Louis to spill his guts about what caused his breakdown this morning. Surprisingly, Louis the takes the bait and sighs, preparing himself for this confession.

“So, I left the pub with that guy shortly after you and Liam left. On our way to my place he pulled me into an alley and we started going at it,” he begins, gauging Zayn’s reaction. He leans forward, resting his chin on his intertwined hands, listening intently to Louis’ recap of the night.

Louis looks down at the table and fiddles with his fingers, avoiding eye contact. “Then, um I dunno how or why, but I said Harry’s name…” he pauses and looks up through his lashes at Zayn who sported wide eyes.

“Shit, Louis,” he says while running his fingers through his thick raven hair.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Louis sighs. “And then I backed up from him and he asked me who Harry was and I just, well, I ran,” he concludes and Zayn barks out a laugh.

He slaps his hand over his mouth as Louis glares at him. “M’sorry. It’s not funny. Just wasn’t expecting you to say you ran.”

“Zayn,” he whines. “I don’t understand this. Why am I still hung up on him? It’s been years, why can’t I get him out of my head?”

“You really loved him, Louis. There isn’t anything wrong with that. Plus, people deal with heartbreak in different ways, there’s no time limit on when you’re supposed to forget about someone who was once everything to you,” Zayn explains and Louis’ heart pulls.

“But he left me. I should hate him. I should want to forget about him, but even the thought of hating him makes me sick. I’m over here going through absolute hell, while he’s probably alright, living his life with someone who’s everything I’m not. It fucking hurts. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him, and grow old with him, while he cast me aside like trash and forgot all about me,” Louis rants, taking a sip of his coffee to distract himself.

“You’re too good of a person to hate anyone, Lou. And I know it hurts and you feel like a piece of you is missing, but honestly, you are complete without him. You just have to find yourself again,” Zayn concludes and Louis opens his mouth to fire back with more reasons as to why he should hate Harry, but he suddenly feels scalding heat spread from his shoulder and down his entire body.

Louis jumps up from his seat and sees a person standing there with a their mouth wide open and their empty coffee cup rolling away on the pavement. Anger boils in his body, already on edge from his conversation with Zayn, and he clenches his jaw, staring down the poor girl who spilled her coffee on him. “What the fuck?” he grits out, feeling his skin burning under the contents of her cup.

“I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. I tripped on the edge of the doorway, I’m so sorry!” the poor girl cries out, and Louis softens, her reaction bringing him back to the way he and Harry met. The memory forces its way into his head and Louis loses his grip on the present.

**13 MAY, 2014**

Louis had woken up for work a few minutes too late that morning, when he stumbled from his shared flat with his best mate Stan. He had been up all night working on a new painting and completely lost track of time, until he glanced at his clock that beamed 3:15 AM in red. He cursed and forced himself into the shower to scrub the paint from his skin, and get to bed before his early shift at the record store. Even after his shower, Louis still struggled to get himself to fall asleep as he tossed and turned and prayed for sleep to take him. He had to be at the shop by 10 AM to work a six hour shift and he was already dreading it. Louis hated his job, and he wanted so badly to just paint for the rest of his life, but there wasn’t much opportunity out there for the profession he desired.

He had a restless night of sleep and pressed snooze one too many times on his alarm clock. When he rolled out of bed he lazily threw his clothes on and raced to the nearest coffee shop, needing something to keep him awake throughout his entire shitty shift. Some customers were alright, but most were music snobs or teenagers trying to look edgy because they bought records. He hated them to be completely honest. They bought records for the aesthetic and not because they actually liked the music, and for some reason it irked Louis. Granted, it was good for business, and it kept Louis paychecks funded, but God did they piss him off.

Once he got to the coffee shop by his work, he impatiently waited in line, and tapped his foot along the hardwood flooring, a consistent beat coming from his scuffed up Vans. The queue moved agonizingly slow and Louis kept huffing and puffing, anxiously checking the time on his phone. He had about ten minutes to get to work, and the walk to his job was five away. Louis didn’t exactly have the time to spare to wait in a ridiculously long queue, but he was desperate for caffeine this morning. He finally made it up to the front and ordered an iced coffee, paying the girl behind the till as quickly as he could, his internal clock ticking down before he was officially late for work.

He waited a few more minutes and they finally called his order number and he gripped his coffee to leave. Louis pulled his phone out of his pocket to check the time once more and saw he only had about five minutes to get his ass to work, or he’d be chewed out by his stickler of a manager. As he was checking his messages and walking to the door he collided into another body and felt cold liquid immediately coat his entire front side. His head whipped up to the person standing in front of him and he saw a mass of curls and regretful mossy eyes, paired with rosy lips that kept opening and closing, trying to find the right thing to say.

“You’ve got to be fucking joking me,” Louis breathed out angrily, glancing away from the boy and staring at his soaked work attire, his blood boiling. He was already running late, and now he was going to walk in there, soaked with whatever the fuck the kid was drinking.

“I am so sorry. Oh my God. I swear I didn’t see you. I was looking at my phone, I’m sorry,” The boy with the maze of curls said and Louis turned his head up to look at him again.

His breath caught in his throat when he finally got the chance to check out the boy in front of him. He had a head of endless rich, dark curls that ended just underneath his chin, tied back with a light green bandana, and Louis wanted to run his fingers through them. He wore a red uni jumper with tight black jeans that covered his never-ending legs, and Louis suddenly forgot why he was angry in the first place. He stared at his delightfully pink puffy lips, wondering what it would feel like to kiss them and he felt his heart jump. His eyes met the boy’s again and the concern swimming around those pale green doll eyes, pulled him in. Little did he know, those eyes would never let him go again.

“Don’t worry about it, Curly, honestly,” Louis said, but the boy didn’t seem to give up.

“No, please. I feel awful. Let me make it up to you somehow. I just- I can’t let you walk away like that and not do anything,” he plead, his eyebrows shifting upwards and his eyes widening with an intentional puppy dog face.

Louis hesitated for a moment, letting his brain catch up with the racing of his heart. “Okay,” he breathed out and the boy jumped back in surprise.

“Okay?” he questioned and Louis nodded his head.

“What did you have in mind?” He asked and the boy furrowed his eyebrows.

“I’m sorry?” He cocks his head to the side and Louis found it endearing. He was entirely captivated by him, his attention never faltering from staring between his breathtaking eyes and his kissable lips.

“To make it up to me,” he said slowly and realization crossed the younger boy’s face.

“Oh. Um, I didn’t really think this far ahead,” He admitted shyly, his hand reaching behind his neck to scratch at it. Louis heart softened at the notion and he really, really wanted to kiss this stranger. There was something so innocent and soft about him that wrapped its arms around Louis and held him captive, but he didn’t mind. He was sure he never wanted him to let go, and in a way he ended up receiving his wish, just not in the way he had originally thought.

“How about this…um, sorry I didn’t catch your name,” Louis said.

“Oh, I’m Harry. Harry Styles.”

Louis smiled to himself. Harry, what a cute name. “Well, nice to meet you, Harry. M’Louis. Louis Tomlinson.” He extended his hand in a joking manner, still wet from Harry’s iced coffee and Harry took it, shaking it over enthusiastically. Louis let out a small laugh and knew in that moment that he was truly done for. “Okay, Harry. How’s this? Why don’t we just grab drinks at a pub sometime this weekend, and you can make it up to me then?”

“That sounds perfect,” Harry admitted and held his hand out, causing Louis to furrow his eyebrows in confusion. “Your phone,” He said simply and Louis handed it over watching as Harry added his phone number into Louis’ contacts.

“Okay. I’ll text you, Curly. I gotta run, I’m late for work,” Louis bid his goodbye and walked past Harry, glancing back to the beautiful boy once more time before stepping through the door of the coffee shop.

**PRESENT**

“Yo,” Zayn calls out, waving his hand in front of Louis’ face. “Earth to Lou.”

Louis shakes his head clear from the memory, the girl still standing there, looking confused as ever. “Sorry I spaced. You’re fine, it’s just coffee, Love. Don’t worry about it,” He says softly, the memory shifting his mood drastically from angry to melancholy. The girl apologizes once more before rushing away and Louis sits back down in his seat, his shoulder still warm from her drink. Zayn notices the distant look in his eyes and knows immediately what happened and he calls Louis’ name once more, trying to get him to snap out of it.

“Harry memory?” he asks hesitantly, and Louis just nods, feeling numb all over again. Oh, the things he would do to be able to go back in time and do it all over again. “Do you want to go home?” Louis nods again and they get up in silence, walking back towards Louis’ flat, his wounds reopening once more.

When the pair arrives back at Louis’ flat he sheds his coffee-stained hoodie and runs his second shower of the day, itching to rid himself from the bitter smell of that girl’s drink and scrub the stickiness from his shoulder. Zayn waits patiently in the dining area, switching between mindlessly flipping through Louis’ unfinished sketches on his table and scrolling through twitter on his phone. After Louis reappears, he sits opposite of Zayn and they sit in a comfortable silence, neither one needing to say anything, because they’ve already talked about it before.

After sitting there for a few minutes Louis finally speaks up, “M’sorry.”

“For what?” Zayn asks, putting his phone down. He stares at his disheveled best friend and wonders just how deeply Harry hurt him. He feels a surge of protectiveness and then spite towards Harry, even though he was preaching to Louis that he doesn't need to hate anyone, but he can’t help himself. If anyone out there could hurt his Louis this much, were they really worth all the love Louis put into them in the first place? Zayn had never met Harry, and sometimes he wished he had, because maybe then he would understand the obsession.

“Being the worst,” Louis sighs and Zayn shakes his head.

“You’re not the worst, Louis. I don’t blame you for feeling the way you do. Your feelings are valid, you shouldn’t apologize for them.” Zayn honestly feels like a big brother to Louis, even though he’s the younger one of their duo, but he can’t help but want to protect him and guide him to the best of his ability.

“I am though. I ruin everything because I can’t get over the moron who broke up with me four years ago. I’m pathetic, truly.” Zayn smacks Louis upside the head. “The fuck was that for?” he spits and Zayn shrugs.

“For being an idiot. Stop talking down about yourself, I don’t like it.”

“Okay,” he mumbles, rubbing the side of his head slowly. “Do you think- no never mind,” Louis says and piques Zayn’s interest.

“Do I think what?” he questions, pushing Louis to just spit it out and stop holding back.

“Do you think he thinks of me?” he says in a small voice, and Zayn feels his heart crack. Louis looks so small and defeated, his tired eyes sporting matching purple half moons, and his light brown patchy scruff growing in.

“Lou, I honestly don’t know,” He says softly, pursing his lips together as he takes in the sight of his best friend. “I’m sure he sees things that remind him of you, the same way you do, but I don’t know if he dwells on it the way you do.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” he mumbles, pulling the sleeves of his jumper down and clutching them in his hands, his mind drifting back to those haunting green eyes.


	3. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> louis tries to auction a painting. louis remembers the first date.

The days following his incident with Noel pass quickly, and Louis pushes them from his mind as he articulates a new painting to present to the gallery for them to auction off. Running low on inspiration he sits in the corner of his flat and paints his view, his proximity to the Eiffel Tower proving to be a godsend as he gets the details just right. As the Autumn weather sneaks into the year, and the wandering clouds never seem to leave, he includes them as well, hoping it adds depth into his canvas. Louis sighs as he looks over his work, not entirely satisfied with the way it looks, considering how the other paintings in his portfolio didn’t match whatever he managed to piece together at the last minute. He only had a week and a half left to meet his requirements for the gallery, and he was hoping this would be enough for this month.

A few more days pass as Louis waits for his painting to dry, cursing himself for picking a medium that took longer than it should to dry completely. He rolls the canvas up and ties it with some string before tucking it into a black tote bag. He swings the bag over his shoulder and sets out to the gallery, taking his time as he walks along the busy streets of the city. He hums to himself as he walks, singing some old tune he can’t quite place, while kicking up the pebbles along the streets that cross his path. As he gets closer to the gallery he grows anxious, the painting he’s carrying burning hot in the tote bag, because he knows this work isn’t up to his usual standards, but he was lost. He was hoping the owner of the gallery, Enzo Laurent (who had become something resembling a friend since Louis began selling his paintings to him), would understand and take it regardless. Although, Louis knows Enzo has a specific taste, and he prefers art that tells a story, and the only story Louis is telling, is one of boredom and procrastination.

Louis’ breath quickens and his palms begin to sweat when he sees the sign for “Paris Museum of Contemporary Art”, and he considers turning around and telling Enzo that he needs an extension, but before he can, he the glass doors swing open and the man himself, steps out into the street for a cigarette. With the cigarette dangling from his lips and the lighter still cupped between his hands he peeks up and sees Louis approaching.

“Ah, there’s my boy,” Enzo greets, lighting his cigarette and taking a drag as Louis comes closer. He shuffles awkwardly as he feels shame creep into his brain, trying his best to keep up appearances.

“Bonjour, Enzo,” he says quickly, his voice low. Enzo hold his hand out to offer Louis a puff from his cigarette and Louis takes it eagerly, hoping the nicotine will drastically ease his nerves, but to no avail. The tainted smoke enters his lungs and Louis breaths deeply to savor the weightlessness that invades his bloodstream, and for one second he allows the chemicals to distract him.

“So, what have you been up to these past weeks?” He asks, making small talk while he finishes off his cancer stick. The smoke billows from Enzo’s mouth, swirling around himself and Louis, the scent sneaking through the threads of their clothing and ingraining itself there semi-permanently.

“Same old shit. Just working and trying to find inspiration during my off time.” Louis shrugs once he answers, avoiding eye contact. He just wants to show Enzo his work and get on with it at this point. The longer he stands here with his half-assed canvas, the more he wants to run and forget he ever tried to auction it off.

Enzo tosses the butt to his cigarette to the ground and snuffs it out with the heel of his shoe, the smoke from his final drag escaping from his nostrils as he exhales. “Alright, let’s go to my office and see what you’ve got for me this month.” As the words leave his lips and he turns towards the gallery, Louis’ shoes fill with concrete and he has to use every ounce of strength to follow Enzo into the building. The security guards and secretaries greet him as he walks past them, but all he does is wave his hands in acknowledgement and continue dragging his feet. They make it to Enzo’s office and he plops down behind his desk and Louis stands awkwardly in front of it.

“Well,” Enzo prompts, holding his hand out for Louis to present his rolled canvas. He sighs and sets down the bag in the chair next to him, his palms growing slick with nerves, and his brain working in overtime as he prepares himself for the disappointment of a lifetime. He grasps the fabric and pulls is free, shaking the bag off as it snags on the end. Slowly, while sucking in a deep breath, Louis unties the string that holds it together and the painting unravels, revealing itself to Enzo.

Louis winces and holds his breath as Enzo glances over the canvas. He props a hand on his desk and rests his chin on it, quirking his eyebrow and humming. Louis prepares himself and wills his eyes open, his eyes flicking between Enzo and the desk. A minute of silence passes as Enzo takes in everything Louis had to offer on the painting and Louis swears he can hear his heart hammering in his chest, and the anxiety surfing through his veins.

“I’m going to be completely honest with you, Louis,” Enzo says, his eyes still on the canvas. A beat of deafening silence. A sharp breath from Louis. “I like it, but”- _buts are never good. Anything you say before a but is always invalidated by everything said after the pause_ , Louis thinks- “it’s lacking emotion. A story. Something that stops me and forces me to ask, ‘Wow I wonder what happened in that moment to make the artist paint such a thing?' You understand?” Louis feels his ego deflate and the sting of rejection slaps his face like winter breeze.

“I understand,” He says dejectedly, numb fingers slowly rolling his disappointment back up. Even though he expected as much, the rejection still leaves a bruise upon his previously unmarred confidence as a painter.

“But because I like you, Louis, and you’ve brought me a great deal of business with your name alone, I’m offering you an extension. Take two more weeks to bring me something that has my mind running in circles trying to descry the emotional baggage behind it, and we’ll keep our arrangement per usual,” Enzo says, and Louis snaps his head up, eyes wide with utter surprise, and welcomes the feeling of a weight being lifted off his dainty shoulders.

“Enzo, I- Thank you. I appreciate it,” he expresses and reaches forwards to shake Enzo’s hand. “I won’t let you down this time, I promise,” Louis declares and Enzo nods swiftly.

“I know you won’t. We all have our rough patches. I have no doubt you’ll bring me your best next time we meet.” Louis removes his hand and places his rejected painting into his tote bag and slings it over his shoulder with a newfound determination.

As he reaches for the door handle, Enzo calls out. “See you in two weeks, Louis. Bon courage.”

Louis smiles, “À la prochaine.” and exits the office.

Although Louis was given another chance to prove himself to Enzo, it doesn’t mean he wasn’t back at square one. He still had been struggling with inspiration and had yet to find a new muse. Louis was at a standstill in his life, and it seemed like every day had become more and more like the last. As Louis waded through his monotonous life, he found his initial seed had been watered, grew as far as it could, and wilted out, leaving Louis begging for slivers of sunlight and grasping for drops of water.

He walks down the familiar side streets of Paris, passing groups of tourists as he trudges along the pavement, dragging his feet and adolescently kicking pebbles. He thinks about just returning to his flat and moping for the entirety of the day, laying across his bed and staring aimlessly at the ceiling as the blades circle overhead, but he knows he can’t afford that right now. Not with his reputation on the line. Not when Enzo needs a new piece from him in just 14 days. Typically, Louis is a master procrastinator, always waiting until the week before his deadlines to even produce his initial sketch, but this time around he has significantly less time to get started.

He brainstorms ways in which he could potentially find something to inspire him to create a painting worthy of evoking emotion. Louis considers going to a few of the local galleries and wandering around, waiting for something to stick. He shakes his head and turns down the idea as quickly as it appears, deciding it would be best to not compare his work to others when he was already in a fragile state when it came to creating his own work. He lifts his head up from the pavement that was stealing his attention, disregarding the pebble he had kept with him for the past few blocks, and watches the masses dance across his vision like they had rehearsed it before he arrives. His peers weave around one another in seamless movements, the harmony of the chaos from busy streets and the locals migrating through lost tourists, settling him as he watches from the corner. He too, then migrates through tourists, working his way by them as they step and halt every couple of meters, pausing to take photos and purchase Parisian souvenirs at the street carts.

He decides, instead, that he’s going to put himself in the shoes of a tourist for the remainder of his day, and maybe something new will catch his eye and remind him why he fell in love with Paris in the first place. Louis mimics them as they walk, pausing when they do and staring with curiosity at the sights that catch their eyes, and wondering which lenses they see the world through. He pauses behind a family and places his arms behind his back, tilting his head as he watches the mindlessly take pictures of the streets he passes daily. He thinks back to when he first moved here- heartbreak fresh in his chest, wide teary eyes taking in the new sights, ones he would soon call home- and he struggles to comprehend the fact that while he acclimated to a new city, his heartbreak never left his chest, and the tears remain at bay for the time being. It seems, to Louis, that life has carried on around him, and he just became better at forcing his emotions further and further into his heart.

Louis peers through the phone the mother of the group holds, watching as her children pose (unwillingly might he add) in front of the Eiffel tower, holding one another with distaste, and he can’t help but laugh. He thinks back to family trips he would take with his mother and army of siblings, reminiscing the way his sisters would push and shove another while their mother barked at them to stay still and smile. He misses them. Sure he calls them every few weeks to catch up, but he doesn’t see them as much as he should, even after their mother passed a few years back. Louis will stop in for holidays, and sometimes birthdays if he isn’t strapped in another deadline, but it’s never truly enough. It’s in that moment he decides to make his usual trip home for the winter holidays, a week or two longer, just to make up for how much time they lost.

Louis is pulled from his thoughts when the mother turns around to talk to him. “Excuse me, sir. Do you mind taking a picture of all of us?” American, Louis notes, then nods and smiles, taking the phone from her and watching as she wrangles her three young children together. Her husband stands in the back, mildy amused, watching his family act so disorganized as they arrange themselves for a family photo.

“Okay on three,” he says and they all look up with wide smiles plastered on their faces, save for what looks to be the eldest child. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than right here with his parents and two younger siblings, who refuse to stop pulling each other’s pigtails. “Un… deux,” Louis begins and the youngest sibling cries out when her hair gets pulled too hard. The mother slaps their hands away from each other and whispers, quite threateningly Louis notices, and they all look up smiling again. “…trois,” he says and snaps the photo. He takes two more just for good measure as the younger two keep fidgeting.

The mother rushes up to him in appreciation and he hands her back her phone. “Thank you so much,” she says, “I’m sorry, they’re quiet a handful.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he laughs off, “I’ve got six siblings of my own, so I know exactly how these pictures go.”

“Oh, God bless you mother. She must be a saint,” she concludes and Louis smiles.

“Yeah, she was,” he admits, a soft smile pulling at his lips.

“Thank you again,” the mother says and heads back to her family, while Louis continues his tourist walk.

Louis sulks down the streets, trying to find life in the inanimate sights that surround him, and he feels stuck. Everyone hits rough points in their lives, and it seems like Louis is just getting one after another. It started with Harry, then his mother, and now this. His lack of passion in his art, the one thing that kept him going and held onto his sanity during his times of uncertainty. He needs to learn how to let go, but he spends his days stewing in his broken heart, too much alcohol in his blood, and too many memories to forget.

Louis is creeping up on his 28th birthday, and he feels himself suffocating at the idea of running out of time. Time for what? No one truly knows. But all he knows is he believes the sand in the bottom half of his hourglass is growing exponentially with every second that passes, and before long, the last grain will fall and Louis will have nothing to show for it other than pieces of him in his art, art that has been auctioned off to the highest bidder. He creates these works, putting his blood, sweat, and soul into them, only for people to greedily take them and hang them in their homes with their elitist art connoisseur mindsets. Although it’s all part of the job, and it’s the only way Louis keeps his bills paid and his stomach fed, each time a buyer takes a painting home, they take a piece of Louis as well, and Louis is running out of parts to give.

As Louis walks past the countless street carts, some for Parisian must have dishes, and others with souvenirs, he spots one on the corner with an abundance of flowers. He perks up at the sight and makes his way towards it, stoping to greet the person selling the flowers, and he circles the kiosk once and his eyes land on a small bouquet of sunflowers. He reaches out gently to touch the bright yellow petals, a contrasting aura to his dark blue, depressed one. He strokes the petal, the silk touch of it pulling Louis into his own little world. A memory teases the back of his mind, and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to force it back. But the more he tries to not remember, the harder the memory pushes him, until he finally gives in.

**17 MAY, 2014**

_‘Are we still on for tonight?’_ Harry’s message came in early that morning and Louis felt butterflies pooling in his stomach. They fluttered around his abdomen as his date with Harry crept closer and closer. Louis wasn’t usually the type to get nervous when going on dates, but there was just something different about Harry.

_‘Yes of course Curly. Did you really think I could forget about that pretty face?’_ Louis responded and immediately cringed at his text. _How corny._

_‘Of course not. Just checking x’_ Harry replied and Louis stared at the tiny little _x_ for what could have been hours, but in reality was only a few minutes. Was this his way of flirting? Did the _x_ mean the same thing to Harry the way it did to Louis? Was Louis just overanalyzing? Probably. Would he stop thinking about the idea of potentially kissing Harry? No.

“Shit, Stan,” Louis breathed, once again checking himself out in the mirror. “‘M nervous.”

His flatmate and childhood friend, Stan, chuckled in the corner of Louis’ tiny (and extremely cluttered) bedroom. “Mate, you’re just going to a pub. No need to stress about your outfit.” Louis disregarded his blatant observation of his current situation, fiddling with he hem of his t shirt, tugging it down and fixing the fold on the collar of his denim jacket.

He sighed and stepped closer to the mirror, his hands flying up to tame his messy fringe, brushing the longer strands from his eyes while his reflection squinted at himself disapprovingly. Perhaps even then Louis knew the hold Harry would maintain on his heart, the tight grip of an eternal link, always present and never wavering. He gave himself another glance over and shook his head, tucking his phone and wallet into the back pockets of his black jeans. He had a short walk ahead of him to the train, meeting Harry at a pub near his uni. He left his shared flat, flipping Stan off as he chuckled out some off-handed comment about Louis shagging a uni student.

Louis tugged out a cigarette for his walk, easing his nerves before he stepped foot on the train. He cupped his hands over it as the light breeze kept putting out the flame of his lighter. He puffed on it generously, sucking in sharp breaths and sighing in relief when the nicotine hit his blood stream. As he approached the station he took one more lengthy drag of his cigarette and tossed it to the pavement, squashing the cherry red of the butt into the street with his ratty old shoes.

Louis’ ride lasted no longer than ten minutes, yet the entire time he was gnawing his bottom lip raw, subconsciously reassessing his fringe in the reflection of the window, and trying to calm the hyperactive racing of his heart in his narrow chest. When the train finally stopped,Louis became giddy with nerves, his hands trying to find something to do with themselves, whether it was tugging at the loose strings in his tee, or shoving themselves in and out of his jacket pockets.

He stood outside of the pub, pulling another cigarette free from his jacket, lighting it quickly and sucking it down as he checked his phone. He saw a text from Harry saying that he was already inside, saving Louis a seat, and Louis felt his pulse quicken and his brain turn into mush. He finished off the cancer stick and tossed it somewhere behind him and entered the pub, eyes searching for a mop of umber curls. Louis found him after a few moments, his doll eyes lowered, staring into his pint, tracing his finger around the rim of the glass. Louis hesitated, eyes focused on the way Harry’s fingers moved, trailing his eyes across the boys figure. He followed the rolled sleeve of his plum shirt with an abstract black floral pattern stretching across his body, to the soft flowing curls that he kept tucking behind his ears as they continued to fall into his face.

Another patron bumped into Louis’ back, finally snapping him out of his stalker-like trance and he mumbled a half-assed apology and made his way to the boy who sat patiently waiting for his arrival. Louis leaned next to Harry causing him to look up from his glass where his finger was still tracing absentminded patterns on the rim, his doll eyes glancing upwards in surprise.

“This seat taken, Curly?” Louis asked cheekily, smirking down at the boy.

“You scared me,” Harry breathed, a faint hue of pink spreading across his cheeks, his eyes casting downwards in embarrassment. “But no it’s all yours, _if_ you buy me a drink.”

“Well, I’d buy that one but it looks like some bloke beat me too it already, huh?” He teased, nodding his head to Harry’s half drunken beer, a coy smile sneaking up on Harry’s face.

“Someone had to,” he rolled his eyes dramatically, “I was practically dying from thirst.” Louis laughed, the type of unbound and unexpected laugh that shoots out of your throat before you can even try to catch it, his eyes crinkling, nose scrunching, and heart fluttering in his ribcage with affection.

They shoot the shit for a while, basic small talk and getting to know you type of conversation, learning birthdays, hometowns, and favorite drinks. Louis swore he had never felt lighter in this moment, the endless storm in his brain ceased in the hours he spent getting to know him, clouds parted, downpour turned into drizzle, and sunlight poured over his brain’s ongoing storm with each smile and laugh he coaxed out of Harry.

Far too often he found himself losing his wits when he stared into Harry’s eyes. The crystalline fractals of countless shades of green begged to be traced by Louis’s eyes, to be imprinted into his memory, a snap shot of the first night he spent alone with him. Those eyes would later become his downfall, the second they drew him in, they never intended to let him go. Harry’s eyes tattooed themselves in the front of Louis’ brain, always watching, never leaving him. Even when he closed his own, there they were, as if they were some ironic reminder of the best times.

“What are you planning to do once you graduate?” Louis asked, taking a sip from his pint, before he messily swiped the back of his hand across his thin lips.

“I want to work somewhere in the publishing field, whether I end up writing my own stuff or I just read and edit others. I’d be happy either way.” A soft smile perches itself on his lips, Louis’ gaze focusing on the curve of them and the unique hue of pink, glossy from his beer.

“So you’re a reader I take it?” He urged, just wanting to hear Harry talk. He found something enchanting within his melodious rasp, the deep drawl that Louis wanted to get himself drunk on every day for the rest of his life. Harry spoke slowly, eyebrows creasing infinitesimally as he did, careful as he told his stories to Louis, not wanting to miss a detail or lose his train of thought. Every so often he would pause, a string of um’s and erm’s tacking themselves in-between his sentences like his own personal commas, and Louis lost himself in limerence. He caught himself adoring the curls Harry continued to tuck behind his ears, the long eyelashes that kissed his cheeks softly, and the subconscious nose scrunch he did whenever Louis laughed at some corny joke he made.

“I take it you aren’t then,” Harry laughed, resting his cheek on his hand that was propped up on the bar.

“I am not,” Louis laughed, “I think the last time I finished a book was a book report in secondary school, and even then I just skimmed it and bombed the report.”

“I’m going to turn you into a reader,” Harry claimed, and Louis narrowed his eyes playfully challenging him.

“Oh, are you now?” Harry just nodded in affirmation, biting his lip softly.

“Yup. I’ll give you copies of my favorites and I just know you’ll fall in love with them.”

“Okay, Curly. Whatever you say.” And it was that line that stuck with Louis for the next year of his life spent with Harry. _Whatever you say_. Because it was, always, what Harry said. Louis was a goner from the moment Harry spilled his coffee on him, and he would’ve gone to the edge of the Earth if it was what Harry had asked.

“What about you, Louis?” He prompted, his own curiosity for the boy sitting across from him ebbing in his mind. 

“What about me?” He smiled coyly, eyes shining with affection and a stomach full of beer.

“What’s your plan in life?” Harry asked, and for a second Louis felt himself sober up, the innocent question holding an unknown avalanche of pressure.

“Well, I graduated with an art degree,” Louis began, Harry shifting in his seat to turn towards Louis, obviously intrigued. “My plan right now is to make it big, as silly as that sounds, I had dreams of being the next Van Gogh when I was a kid. For now though, I work in a stuffy old shop for vinyls, painting in my free time and trying, sometimes succeeding, in auctioning it off. I’m hoping for a life of selling my art, not the bullshit starving artist cliché, but actually making a steady income for it, I just haven’t had my break yet.”

“I read somewhere that Van Gogh wanted to be an artist who was known for his sunflowers, so tell me Louis, what’s your sunflower?”

**PRESENT**

_What’s your sunflower?_ The question floats around his brain, the memory that once had infatuation attached to it, reduces itself to nothing but longing. _Your sunflower._ Louis knows, ever since that night, he knew what his sunflower would be, he just didn’t think the flower would ever leave him.

Louis picks up the bouquet of sunflowers, pays for them at the other side of the kiosk and begins his walk home. His fingers absentmindedly trace the petals, thinking back to that conversation he had with Harry. At first he didn’t know what to say, Louis had never had a brand, or a specific thing he painted. He still doesn’t. He’s always changing up his style, the only constant being oil paints. Louis will go from painting landscapes to abstracts, and the occasional portrait. A few times he was commissioned for custom pieces, and given a theme, but even then he had most of the creative freedom.

In the beginning of their relationship, Harry supported Louis’ dream. He encouraged him to paint often, and praised him for his work (even when it wasn’t that good), but somewhere towards the end, when they had harsh conversations about their future together, and what Louis would do for income other than working the occasional odd job to cover the remainder of his rent that the paintings just couldn’t, Louis could tell. He saw the way Harry doubted him, chiding him in the back of his head for not getting a “real” job, and Louis thinks that maybe, just maybe, that was the driving wedge between them. The rush of Louis chasing his once hopeless and childish dream, while Harry was establishing himself in his field with internships and entry level interviews. For a “real” career as Harry said once.

In these moments Louis starts to understand where things went wrong for them, the fear of them struggling rather than living comfortably because of Louis’ dreams and his career choices. But Louis knows that there was never another option for him, he chose his lifelong dream over a potential lifelong love, and sometimes Louis thinks he may have been better off finding a suitable career to help support himself and Harry. Then he remembers that without him, Louis would not be here, in Paris, actually making his dream a reality.

He smiles sadly at the sunflowers, wishing he never had been put in the situation to choose, but he knows even now, with all the nights spent crying and the days spent wishing Harry were still by his side, he would choose this life again and again, and maybe this was the beginning of Louis moving on. Maybe this was where Louis could realize that he shouldn’t have to pick between his dreams and the love of his life, and maybe Louis would realize that there is still plenty of time for him to find another epic love, maybe.


End file.
